The ripples of death
In the sand, in the sky
-- It's nothing to fear,
The old architect cries
But not quite like the seagull,
Who knows the higher mind
In the wrap of kelp.
A photographer strains
Against her bloodline
To capture what is,
A sunset, to share with
The world, what is not.
The trash rolls up
On the obstinate terns
Shrieking their victimhood
At what is not natural law,
Though its rules were observed
To the letter.
They can choose to survive
On the barrenest beach
Or fly further, holding the will
Of the manipulator
In opposition, never to use
The key to get out
Of the prison, thus,
Accepting the rules
Cos they must,
And maybe, if fate
Is sweet, to shape
A twisted pearl
Of hatred, that will
Stand for eons
As a beacon of truth,
Worth sacrificing for.
